Page 35 of He Knows When You're Awake

I shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want her. I’ve built my life on control, on keeping everyone at a safe distance. But watching her dance around her workspace, scattering metallic particles like snow, humming Christmas carols off-key... She’s already made herself at home in my head. Now she’s making herself at home in my space, leaving her marks everywhere she goes. And for the first time in my life, someone is challenging my carefully constructed order. It’s infuriating. Fascinating. Mesmerizing.

I’ve always known exactly how to control every variable, how to bend people and situations to my will. But Sloane Whitmore refuses to be controlled. And god help me, that might be exactly why I want her.

Chapter FourteenSloane

Isink deeper into the bubble bath, watching little sparkles swirl in the water. Even with the expensive bath products Cole stocked in my bathroom, the metallic powder clings to my skin. I’ve officially become a walking art installation.

But it was worth it. The pieces are coming together better than I’d hoped. The atomized metal technique gives them exactly the edge I was looking for—strength wrapped in delicacy, like armor that catches light. If I keep up this pace, I might actually meet the deadline.

Cole and I spent the day in an unspoken standoff. Me continuing work on the necklace components, him sending increasingly detailed notes about the bracelet specifications I was ignoring. Neither of us mentioned the Christmas tree again, but it hovered in the air between us all day. Silent battle lines drawn over something so ordinary. The tension had been thick enough to cut with a jeweler’s saw.

“You meet every deadline,” I tell my reflection in the gleaming faucet. “You always come through.”

It’s what I do. What I’ve always done. Never disappoint. Never let anyone down. Show up early, stay late, exceed expectations. Make everyone proud—my parents, my professors, my clients. Now Cole.

Cole.

I’m not supposed to be thinking about him like this.

Not when he’s my boss. Not when everything depends on keeping this professional. But he’s under my skin, in my thoughts, in the way my body reacts when he so much as looks at me. And worse, I think he knows.

When I finally drag myself out of my camera-free sanctuary, I stop dead in my tracks. There’s an outfit laid out on my bed—a cream sweater dress I’d seen in the window at Bergdorf’s but hadn’t dared to try on, alongside perfectly coordinated accessories. A white wool coat hangs nearby, and when I reach out to touch it, the fabric is impossibly soft under my fingers. And then I see them—thigh-high boots in the softest leather. I’ve stopped to stare at boots like these a dozen times, always talking myself out of them. Too impractical for someone who spends their days in a studio. Too extravagant for something I’d probably only wear once or twice. Too much, just too much.

But right now, with the dress and coat and everything else laid out like an invitation.

He’s been watching me, studying me... and I hate that I love it. That I crave his attention like it’s oxygen. That some part of me wants to belong to him, even when I know I shouldn’t.

I should be creeped out. Should be irritated by his presumption. Any reasonable person would have questions about a man who can guess their exact size down to the half-inch of a boot heel. And the old Sloane—the one who always plays it safe, who never rocks the boat—would put on the dress as expected.

I stare at the perfectly curated outfit for a long moment, my fingers lingering on the soft wool of the coat. The presumption of it all hits me like a slap. This is exactly the problem. He thinks he can just decide everything for me, right down to what I wear.

“Nope,” I say aloud to the empty room. “Not happening.”

I march to my closet, pulling out my favorite red-and-green plaid skirt that I save for holiday parties. Paired with a simple black sweater, some sparkly earrings, and my battle-tested ankle boots. The ones with the scuffs I’ve earned from years of Manhattan commutes. It’s festive without being what he expects. I even add a silly snowman charm bracelet that Chloe gave me last Christmas as the final touch of rebellion.

As I get dressed, I can’t help glancing at the cream outfit still lying on my bed. Part of me wants to try it on, just to see. My fingers actually twitch with the urge to reach for it.

“No,” I tell myself firmly. “Boundaries. Remember those?”

The click of my boots against the marble floor announces my approach to the elevator, where Cole is waiting. He turns, and for a moment, we both freeze. He’s traded his usual suit for dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that makes me want to touch him just to see if it’s as soft as it looks.

His gaze travels over me slowly, confusion flickering across his face as he registers my outfit choice. A brief flash of something—disappointment? amusement?—crosses his expression before his features settle into that familiar half-smile.

“I like the snowman,” he says simply, nodding toward my bracelet. “Veryin season.”

I fight the urge to smooth my hands over my skirt, suddenly feeling like I’ve made a childish point. “I suppose I should thank you for the thought, at least. The outfit was nice.”

“The clothes don’t matter.” His eyes meet mine briefly before moving to the elevator buttons. “It’s the person wearing them.”

His eyes travel over my outfit again, lingering just long enough to make me uncomfortable.

“You do realize it’s slightly unsettling that you know my exact measurements?”

“I know everything.” He pauses. “That sounded less ominous in my head.”

The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and I step in, laughing. “At least you’re self-aware about the creepy factor.”

“I prefer thorough.” He follows, standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him.